Volume III Part 55 (1/2)
”But there is not a moment to lose,” said the marchioness. ”I am dying with impatience to take you with me, Fleur-de-Marie; I have brought in my carriage a shawl and a warm cloak; come, come, my child.” Then, addressing the count, she added, ”Will your lords.h.i.+p be good enough to give my address to this courageous woman, so that she can come to-morrow and say farewell to Fleur-de-Marie? So, you will be obliged to come and see us,” she said to La Louve.
”Oh! lady, I will come, very sure,” answered she, ”since it is to say adieu to La Goualeuse; I should be very sad not to be able to see her once more.”
A few moments afterward Lady d'Harville and La Goualeuse were on the road to Paris.
Rudolph, after having beheld the death of Jacques Ferrand, so terribly punished for his crime, had returned home in a state of deep dejection.
After a long and sleepless night, he had sent for Sir Walter Murphy, to confide to this old and faithful friend the heartrending discovery concerning Fleur-de-Marie that he had made the previous evening. The worthy Englishman was overwhelmed; better than any other person, he could comprehend and partake of the profound grief of the prince. The latter, pale, prostrated, his eyes red from weeping, had just made Murphy this painful revelation.
”Take courage,” said the latter, wiping his eyes; for, notwithstanding his firmness, he had also wept. ”Yes, take courage, my lord--much courage. I offer no vain consolations--this sorrow has no cure.”
”You are right. What I felt yesterday is nothing compared to my present sufferings.”
”Yesterday your highness felt the shock, but the reaction will each day be more grievous. Therefore, call up all your energy. The future is sad--very sad.”
”And then, yesterday, the contempt and horror with which this woman inspired me! But may G.o.d have pity on her, for at this moment she is before him. Yesterday, in fine, surprise, hatred, fright, so many violent pa.s.sions, smothered within me these elements of despairing tenderness, that at present I can restrain myself no longer--I can hardly weep. And yet now, with you, I can. Hold! you see, I have no strength--I am cowardly--pardon me. Tears again--always--oh! my child! my poor child!”
”Weep, weep, your highness. Alas! the loss is irreparable.”
”And so many dreadful miseries to make her forget,” cried Rudolph, in a touching tone, ”after all that she has suffered! Think of the fate which awaited her!”
”Perhaps this transition might have been too abrupt for the unfortunate, already so cruelly tried.”
”Oh! no, no! not so. If you knew with what delicacy--with what reserve, I should have apprised her of her birth; how gently I should have prepared her for this revelation--it was so simple, so easy. Oh! if this were the only question, do you see,” added the prince, with a bitter smile, ”I should have been composed, and not embarra.s.sed. Throwing myself on my knees before the idolized child, I would have said, 'You who have been until now so cruelly treated, be at length happy--and forever happy. You are my daughter.' But no,” said Rudolph, ”no, that is not it--that would have been too hasty, too rash. Yes, I would have restrained myself and said to her, in a calm manner, 'My child, I must tell you something that will astonish you much. Yes; imagine that they have discovered traces of your parents; your father lives, and your father is--I am your father.'” Here the prince again interrupted himself. ”No, no; this is also too sudden, too abrupt; but it is not my fault that this revelation is always springing to my lips; one must have more self-command--you comprehend, my friend, you comprehend?
To be there before your daughter, and restrain your feelings!” Then, giving way again to despair, Rudolph cried, ”But to what purpose these vain words?
I shall never speak to her again. Oh! that which is frightful--frightful to think of, is, that I have had my daughter near me during a whole day--yes, that day, forever accursed, on which I took her to the farm; that day when all the treasures of her angelic mind were revealed to me in all their purity, and nothing in my heart whispered, 'She is your daughter!'
nothing--nothing! Oh! how blind, stupid I was, not to imagine this. I was unworthy to be a father.”
”But, sir--”
”But, in truth,” cried the prince, ”did it not depend upon myself whether I should ever leave her? Why did I not adopt her? I, who lament so much for my child? Why, instead of sending this unfortunate child to Madame George, did I not keep her with me? To-day I should only have had to extend my arms to her. Why have I not done that? Why? Ah! because one only does good by halves; because one only values treasures when they have disappeared forever: because instead of raising at once to her true level this admirable young girl, who, in spite of misery and abandonment, was, through her mind and heart, greater, n.o.bler, perhaps, than she ever would have been by the advantages of birth and education. I thought I was doing much for her by placing her at a farm with some good people, as I would for the first interesting beggar that I met in the streets. It is my fault--it is my fault. If I had done that she would not have been dead. Oh! yes, I am punished--I have deserved it--bad son, bad father!”
Murphy knew that such grief was inconsolable, and remained silent.
”I shall not remain here--Paris is hateful to me; to-morrow I go--”
”You are right, my lord.”
”We will stop at the farm of Bouqueval. I will shut myself up for some hours in her chamber, where she pa.s.sed the only happy days of her life. I will have collected with religious care all that belonged to her--the books she commenced to read; the paper she had written on; the clothes she has worn--all, even to the furniture--even to the tapestry of her rooms, of which I myself will take an exact delineation. And at Gerolstein, in the private park where I have raised a monument to the memory of my outraged father, I will have a small house built, in which shall be rebuilt _this_ room; there I will go to weep for my daughter. Of these two funeral monuments, one will recall my crime to my father, the other the chastis.e.m.e.nt which reached me through my child. Thus, then, let everything be prepared to-morrow morning.”
Murphy, willing to try if he could not turn the prince a moment from his gloomy thoughts, said, ”All shall be ready, sir; only you forget that to-morrow the marriage of Germain, the son of Madame George, and Rigolette takes place. Not only have you made a provision for Germain, and munificently endowed the bride, but you have also promised to be present at the wedding as a witness. Then are they to be informed of the name of their benefactor.”
”It is true I have promised. They are at the farm, and I cannot go there to-morrow without being present at the ceremony, and I will confess I have not the courage.”
”The sight of the happiness of these young people will, perhaps, calm your sorrow.”
”No, no, grief is selfish, and seeks retirement. To-morrow you will go in my place; and you will beg Madame George to collect everything belonging to my daughter. Let a plan of her room be made, and sent to me in Germany.